Sokratea was a strange place. In some ways it was the least Platonic of all the republics, including Lucia’s Christian Platonism. They didn’t have classes, and they didn’t separate out guardians from other people. They wanted to examine life, in the Socratic spirit, and they did that. They believed that Sokrates had been entirely right in the Last Debate. They read Plato, but in no very respectful spirit. They banned Masters from their city, but otherwise they had complete free speech and freedom of publication, and voted on everything, all the time. When Father addressed them he addressed the whole city from the rostrum in the agora—they had no Chamber and no committees.

“Doesn’t public business get unwieldy?” I asked Patroklus, one of the Children whom I’d met the last time I’d been there. He came to our guest house and took us to eat with him in his eating hall, which was called simply “Six.” Their streets too were numbered.

“It does get unwieldy. It takes a lot of time,” he admitted. “But we find it’s worth it.” The food was good; they gave us fish and cabbage and pasta. They had plenty of Young Ones, and lots of Children of course, but because they had refused entry to Masters, no old people at all. Nobody was any older than Father and Patroklus, and that felt strange to me as soon as I’d noticed it.

Father and I sang to their Assembly. I was nervous, even though I knew the harmonies really well by then. I’d never performed to so many strangers—and as Briseis I’d been wearing a mask. Now it was just my naked face. I felt a little sick before we started. But once Father played the first chord the music carried me with it. And it was all true. Peace was worth fighting for, defending, and in some circumstances attacking—to help another city put down a tyrant, for instance.

The people of Sokratea were moved by the music, and by Father’s arguments. They agreed to send envoys to the conference, and, after much spirited and public debate, to send their art. “Not the art we have made here!” one woman insisted.

“Nobody is asking for that,” Father said. “Though some of it is excellent, and if you chose to circulate it I think everyone would be truly impressed by it.”

I stood in the crowd after we’d finished singing, watching the speakers, ready to let Father know if they were lying. Apart from some forgivable hyperbole, they were not.

The next day we moved on to Psyche. Psyche had been built entirely by humans, with no Worker assistance, and it bore a certain resemblance to Marissa and the other Lucian cities. They had lots of art visible, almost all of it stolen from us. The city was arranged in concentric rings around a small hill, and consequently was very difficult to navigate. It was supposed to be the physical model of the soul, but if so my soul didn’t understand it.

We were not offered guest-friendship—partly, we guessed, because of Euklides leaving. Psyche accepted applications for citizenship but did not allow emigration. We ate and slept aboard the Excellence. The ship felt strange. It had a different crew, people who had not been on the voyage, and who seemed like usurpers in the place of friends and familiar faces. A pimply ephebe only a year or two older than me kept sprawling on the coil of rope where Erinna and I had sat the night Kallikles told us about the Naxians, and I almost wanted to push him overboard for his effrontery.

In Psyche, Father had to meet what felt like an infinite number of committees. In direct opposition to Sokratea, Psyche was top-heavy with Masters. In addition, they denied women a place in public life, so everyone we met was male. Lots of them lied, though maybe I shouldn’t call it lying when people blandly assure you that they understand and sympathize. They were frequently and habitually insincere. They were also obsessed with numerology. I knew a little of it from Ficino, whose loss the people of Psyche genuinely regretted. Eventually, after days of obfuscation, Father had a meeting with a man called Aurelius who seemed to have the ability to make decisions. Father persuaded him to send envoys to the conference. It then took days more to persuade them to send their art, and we had to agree that it would be sent under armed guard and with hostages pledged for its return.

They wouldn’t let us sing before their Assembly, but we sang in the agora on the day we left. It wasn’t official. We just walked through the agora and stopped and began to sing. People clustered around, naturally, more and more of them, women as well as men. Afterward everyone tried to hug us and touch us—it felt very strange. Father said it was because they’d been moved and they wanted to make a connection. Many of them came to the quayside before the ship left, so we sang it again standing on the desk of the Excellence. On the last chorus, they joined in on “When the time comes to defend,” startling me.

“Wait until you hear the full choral version,” Father said, afterward. “Phaedrus is rehearsing them. They’ll sing it at the conference.”

We moved on to Athenia. Athenia looked just like home, except smaller. We stayed in a guest house and spent a lot of time with my brother Alkibiades. I was so delighted to see him that I was prepared to forgive Athenia a lot of its formality and rigidity. Alkibiades was a gold, naturally; he had also been a gold at home. He took us to his eating hall, Theseus—all the halls were named after Athenian heroes. There was a bronze statue of Theseus with the head of the giant Kerkyon in the hall, which I remembered seeing in the Athenian eating hall at home years ago. Alkibiades had good advice for Father.

“Talk about what happened to Mother. They’ll be sympathetic. We’re sick of art raids too. The Amazons keep raiding us. Talk about Plato. They think you’re compromised but essentially trying to do the right thing.”

“That’s about right,” Father said.

That night he asked me if I’d talk to Alkibiades and Porphyry about going to Delos. “It would be easier for you. It happened to you. You can explain it better. I can’t think how to bring it up. It was awkward with Euklides.”

“I don’t think it would be very easy, but I will if you want me to.”

The Athenians didn’t allow anyone under the age of thirty into their Chamber, not even envoys. Father said he’d have to sing alone, and that he could manage. Alkibiades and I went for a walk in the hills outside the city. They were planted with vines. “It’s good volcanic soil and they thrive here,” he said. “I’ve done a lot of work pruning them this year. We have vines and olives and barley, just as Plato says. No goats or sheep, though. We have to trade for all our cheese and leather. Fortunately, everyone wants wine.”

“When we went to Delos, Kallikles and Phaedrus and I acquired god-powers,” I said. I hadn’t been able to see how to tell him, so I just blurted it out.

He stopped walking. “What?” I could tell he didn’t believe me. Though he was fond of me, I’d been so much younger when he left home.

“Really. We can all do things. And Father says he’s going to try to take Euklides there, and you and Porphyry if you want to go.”

“What kind of powers?” He was still only half-believing.

“I can tell when people are telling the truth, so I can tell that you don’t believe me. And Kallikles can change the weather and call lightning, and Phaedrus can heal people and control the volcano.”

“It would be hard to demonstrate knowing the truth,” he said, skeptically.

“Oh, and I can fly as well,” I said. “Look.” I swooped up into the air, and had the satisfaction of seeing my favorite brother’s mouth fall open.

We discussed it as we walked on. Before we’d gone much farther he had decided he definitely didn’t want any powers of his own. “It’s not my kind of thing. I don’t want to be a god. I just want to be an ordinary philosopher king, like everyone else.” He intended to tease, but he was absolutely serious and meant it. That really was what he wanted. “We’re trying to do Plato right here, as Athene intended, as Plato intended. And we’re all volunteers—not the babies born here, but even they have the choice when they become ephebes to swear their oath or leave for one of the other cities.”